The Waking of the Ghost
by Noblehorns
Summary: "Harry Potter, come to visit my... lonely grave? How sweet of you," the ghost of Lord Voldemort sneered. • Harry visits Voldemort's grave on a whim, and finds the defeated Lord back as a ghost.
1. Stone Slab

**disclaimer:** _Harry Potter_ does not, never will, nor have I ever desired to own it. It is the property of J. K. Rowling and her affiliates. This is not for anything other than personal amusement.

**A/N:** A short prologue, and it will remain strictly in the 'T' rating, because I said so.

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'For certain is death for the born  
And certain is birth for the dead;  
Therefore over the inevitable  
Thou shouldst not grieve.'

— Bhagavad Gita (250 BC - 250 AD), _Chapter 2_

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~ v ~

The Waking of the Ghost  
Stone Slab

~ v ~

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"Harry, Harry... _Harry Potter,_ come to visit my... lonely grave? How sweet of you," the ghost of Lord Voldemort sneered, its pale face twisted into something ugly and nauseating.

The ghost had the same, warped qualities that the man had had at the time of his death — it looked more terrible than it ever had, with tense shoulders and jagged angles. Oddly, while the ghosts of Hogwarts were utterly devoid of color, Voldemort's specter had color, and Harry could see that it still had the same bloodied eyes. They were narrowed at that moment in suspicion and practiced curiosity. He wondered why the phantom hadn't passed on to the other side, or how, in fact, it even existed at the moment. As far as Harry was concerned, all the horcruxes had been destroyed, and so, the Dark Lord was supposed to be in a torturous state of limbo. Not that being trapped as a ghost wasn't torturous for a man who lusted after living forever. Living, being the key word. Not this state of dead-alive. If the ghost hadn't been dressed in a sleek, dark suit, Harry was positive that he could have seen every bone, every flaw in that thing's body.

It had long limbs, long fingers, and the same ruined face. Harry was deeply unnerved by the sight of it.

He had come to visit the grave for no certain reason at the time, in a mix of rebellion against his friends and his thought that it was rather sad that no one would (willingly) visit the tombstone, which the ghost was perched upon, fingers wrapped around the stone. It had a smug smirk, one which Harry could not begin decipher the reason behind, and its legs were crossed before it. It wasn't wearing any shoes, Harry noted absently.

He honestly didn't have a reason to be there at the grave of his fated enemy, just as he hadn't a reason when he insisted upon the man having a proper burial, against the protests of the general public. He shook his head, feeling the spirit's unblinking gaze upon his face. He felt the faint warmth rise to his cheeks, mentally cursed, and met the eyes with a fierce glare. Harry was not expecting to find Voldemort's face so close to his own, or to be incapable of looking away from the dark, murderous stare. He nearly contained his flinch when the ghost's cold, long fingers touched his face, swallowing his heat. Harry took a deep, shaking breath and took a step away from the creature.

It looked after him with a peculiar expression, before it frowned.

"Why — why are you a ghost?" Harry asked, tightening his fist around the bouquet of white chrysanthemums in his hand, "I thought... that... you couldn't come back."

Voldemort hissed suddenly, rearing his head back as though he had been offended, "Why should I tell you, when you would just try and use that information to get rid of me? Do you think I would tell you even if I knew? Just so you could send me back to that hell? Do you think me a fool? I know you and your _games_, Potter, you and your tricks."

He blinked at the amount of rage in the simple accusations, before he said, "I do not — "

"I don't want your pity, Potter!" the ghost seethed, clenching his hands into fists, backing away from the young wizard, mad eyes sealed shut.

Voldemort's ghost was a pitiful creature, Harry realized dully, to the point that it was almost laughable that someone as pretty and proud as Tom Riddle would _allow_ himself to be reduced to such a state. He could clearly see the wear and tear of the world in the way the ghost slouched slightly, despite its rather looming, commanding presence in the graveyard. His eyes were the same glassy countenance, neither reflecting the light, nor showing any life. Harry could see himself reflected on the milky surface, but not at all properly sinking into what lay behind the film. He was fairly disturbed by the concept.

Harry took a deep breath to compose himself; he couldn't exactly hurt the translucent image before him, after all. "Did you know that your horcruxes were destroyed, because if you did, you surely wouldn't have come to that battle, isn't that right?"

"I," the ghost hissed, "felt them, do not doubt it."

"Then why?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

The phantom's shoulders visibly sagged, and it took on an under the weather air as it crept back toward its tombstone. It pressed against the cold stone, as though it wished to sink back into it. The specter buried its face within the palms of its slender, knobby hands and let out a single, nasal sound from the back of its throat. Harry bit his lip as he looked at the dejected form of the ghost. It was a terrible existence, he realized, and he was sure Voldemort felt the same.

Unable to move on, to go to the other side, trapped in the face of his failure. Unable to live, trapped in a non-corporeal form, hardly able to do a thing. Then again, Harry didn't know much about ghosts, so he wasn't sure what they were and weren't capable of. He knew that poltergeists were physical creatures, but nothing about true, dead-alive ghosts. He was so caught up in those thoughts that he nearly missed the muttered words from the creature itself.

"There was only blood... blood, and madness..."

Harry sucked in a loud, hissing breath as he listened on to the half-mad words of a madman.

"...and sometimes, we were not entirely... in control, because the pieces were not all there and... others no longer existed at all, so we were reduced to... blood and madness — " the ghost stopped abruptly with a snarl, drawing himself up so he could train an accusing finger at Harry, teeth bared in an unholy interpretation of a grimace.

"_You_! You, you are tricking us, are you not? To make us tell you our secrets_sss_," it accused thinly, "This, this is your... 'feelings', is it not? Trying to make us feel them too."

"Or maybe you've just gone off the deep end," Harry snapped before he could stop himself, "Finally able to show just how much of a loon you really are."

Voldemort's ghost let out a low, rumbling sound before it lunged out at Harry, claws slipping right through the Savior's head, causing said Savior to shudder at the sudden chill that enveloped him. His glasses fell, impromptu, to the grass beneath his feet, the lenses slightly cracked and frost bitten. Harry jumped back just in case Voldemort tried anything else funny, but found he did not have to worry that much as the dead-alive Lord was staring at his hand with trepidation. The ghost began to tremble, and this fluttering feeling corresponded within Harry's head, making him scowl something fierce. The ghost retreated back to his tombstone, wrapping his fingers around the dead granite, letting out hisses that Harry could no longer understand. When Voldemort realized the language barrier, he let out one last weak sound, before sitting in front of the grave-marker, arms crossed and eyes pressed close.

He did, however, understand when Voldemort grumbled, "Go away Potter."

Harry frowned, and stepped forward, wary of the single vermilion slit watching his every move. He let the bouquet of white flowers land before the grave of one Tom Riddle before he turned on his heel, and made to leave the ghost to itself and its woes, when a cold brand wrapped itself around his wrist. He blinked once, twice, before staring down at the perplexed face of the Lord, his own expression not much better. Harry sighed, and slunk down into a sitting position so he was across from the ugly creature.

He huffed, "What, Voldemort?"

"The year, what's the date?"

"December 2, 2000 — why does it matter?" Harry questioned, not seeing the point.

"..."

"So you aren't going to tell me? It isn't like you have anything to lose, now," he informed Voldemort, who stared blankly onward.

"_Two years_," Voldemort muttered to himself, threading his fingers together, "Dead for two years... I wonder, how many of my _followers_ were slaughtered or sent to the Dementors?"

When Harry remained silent, Voldemort's jaw clenched and his fingers strangled an invisible foe, and he seethed, "How many, Potter?"

"You aren't supposed to care about them," Harry replied lamely, avoiding the subject.

"Answer me! How many of my people were slaughtered at the hand of your precious, adoring bootlickers?"

Weakly, he mumbled, "Too many to count."

"_Get! Get!_" Voldemort howled, taking a swipe at Harry with his cold hands, and Harry stepped away, onto his glasses which snapped beneath his feet. "Begone, Potter! And don't you dare come back! Don't ever — don't ever!"

Numbly, Harry snatched up his broken lenses and quickly disapparated from the graveyard, fearful of what the ghost would do if properly provoked. Nothing physically damaging, he knew, but mentally, he didn't dare think about it. Voldemort had been a skilled Legimens in life, so who said that that skill didn't continue on in his dead-alive state? He landed poorly on the loamy soil of his cottage's garden, a property that he had inherited upon his maturation, and stared down at his broken spectacles. He took a deep, shaking breath, and leaned against the white picket fence. Was he really thinking about going back to Voldemort's grave?

Was he honestly considering returning to keep the wretched ghost company?

No, no... he wasn't.

Voldemort's ghost was rude, and stark raving mad. Hell, the creature didn't even want company, from the sound of things, and was perfectly content to wallow away in its uninformed, dull eternity that it had fermented in for the past two years.

"Ha," he snorted, "The bastard got his immortality after all, just not the way he wanted."

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**A/N:** ... I've been reading too many of Emily Dickinson's poems, apparently. [snort]


	2. Invitations

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'Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,  
Like one who does, not suffers wrong.'

— Percy Bysshe Shelley, _Prometheus Unbound_

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The Waking of the Ghost  
Invitations

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Harry took a sip from the warm, churning black coffee in his pristine white cup and winced at the strong, definitely acquired taste. He set the cup back down on the coaster, before turning back to the paper in his hands — he sure as hell needed the dosage of caffeine, considering he had been plagued with nightmares filled with Voldemort being tortured by demons (red with horns and pitchforks and all), and various other unsettling images involving the slightly inhuman eyes of the ghost wide and _not right_. Hell, he needed the extra help just because he had lived through a conversation with the madman. He gave another deep, long sigh, an act he had begun to make a habit of, before shaking his head. He was determined to let Voldemort wallow in his own ineffectiveness and failure, if only because the ghost deserved nothing less.

Alright, so he was lying to himself.

He didn't want Voldemort to suffer, he knew the man had suffered enough throughout his life (Harry wasn't oblivious to their similar pasts, after all), but the man, ghost, _creature_ was as psychotic as ever. Vain, arrogant to a fault, and it would definitely not be accepting any help from him any time soon. He had been thinking it over for the past two days, and no matter what scenario he managed to come up with, it ended up with either one of them shouting insults at each other. Or Harry on the ground because of some mind trick the ghost was capable of, screaming his lungs out with no one to help him. And he didn't necessarily want that outcome, nor did he want to bring someone along with him to help the madman.

"Oh, ugh," he found himself telling his coffee cup, "Helping Voldemort? Not exactly two words you hear in the same sentence everyday."

And now he was talking to himself. Because of Voldemort. Lovely, he thought with a huff, violently flipping to page eight of the _Prophet _with more force than needed. He nearly tore the page off. Page eight contained the majority of the tabloids type articles, including the ones about him, and what people speculated he was doing on his month long vacation. Also about why his friends hadn't been invited: especially one Ginevra Weasley.

Ginny. Harry shook his head and tossed the paper to the side, where it vanished before it hit the floor. Annoyed, he downed the rest of his coffee without gagging on the rich flavor, and cleared the table with a wave of his wand. He did love magic, for all of its convenience in not doing the menial chores that had ruined his life under the Dursley's.

Now, he had more pressing matters to attend to, such as placating a murderous ghost so that he might help it. Or at least have a civil conversation that didn't end up in another screaming match with cold hands and phantom attacks. He exhaled deeply and spread his hands across his round oak table. Currently, he was sitted in the kitchen, his bare feet on the black-and-white tiles, wearing nothing but a pair of black pants. Rubbing his temples at trying to figure out what could calm the rage the man would no doubt feel upon seeing him other than his decapitated head. Summoning a pen and a piece of parchment to him, he began to write down his thoughts neatly on paper.

First, Voldemort was still a psycopath (nothing new there), and probably wanted Harry to join him in death.

Another was that the deceased Dark Lord had definitely spent the past two years in utter seclusion from human contact.

Harry was not an expert on human psychology, or on the mind at all, but he knew that seclusion always made matters worse. His own personal experiences lead to that conclusion. So, he had a deranged, and probably mentally ill ghost — if that was even possible — and his own temper to deal with. He found himself sighing again. What, other than contact that would doubtlessly be rejected, and his head would appease the ex-Lord?

_Oh._

"Duh, Harry!" Harry exclaimed, smacking his palm against the table, "What did Voldemort appreciate just as much as power? Knowledge! I'll bring him a book!"

However, knowing what to bring lead to an even bigger dilemna; what did one bring a Dark Lord to read?

Groaning, and not under the delusion that he could waltz into the nearest bookstore and ask 'what would be the best thing to bring to a deceased, complete psychopath who is incapable of expressing any emotion other than hate?' without being hauled off to an asylum, no matter what his status in society was. Especially considering that _he_ had been the one to kill said man. He sucked on his tongue as he thought off all that he could bring, and finally got up out of seat to head into his study. There was bound to be something in there, considering Hermione had been the one to stock it, saying that he was incapable of telling the good literature from the bad. It wasn't that he didn't like to read, it was that he didn't favor intellectual texts.

He preferred fantasies. It was a simple state of fact, but he enjoyed gallavanting adventures involving sinister plots, twists and turns, and terms such as fate, destiny, and _justice_.

But he doubted Voldemort would enjoy those sorts of stories, so he turned to the menacing looking tomes that Hermione had gifted him on numerous occasions.

Eventually, after a full twenty minutes of trying to decipher the mumble-jumble on the backs of the books and within, he merely grabbed one and headed to his bedroom so he could get dressed before visiting the graveyard where Voldemort resided. He shivered while making a face that described his disgust in a rather well-fitting, childish manner, and snickered at his own immaturity. Fully dressed in clothes that would (hopefully) not make the ghost mad over something as banal as the clothes being muggle, he picked up the menacing book and vanished with a soft crack.

He landed on the dew covered dark grass without falling or stumbling, which was generally a miraculous feat, but he shoved it aside for a moment to look for the ghost. When he didn't spot it, he frowned, and headed over to the dead man's grave, only to find the flowers that he had left there torn apart and scattered every which way. Well, that was rude, he thought, offended. He did something kind, and this was how he was repaid? Voldemort was lucky Harry wasn't as vindictive as he tried to be, else he would be dealing with an exorcist at this point.

Still, the fact that the ghost was nowhere to be seen was concerning.

"Er, Voldemort?" Harry whispered, looking around, finding nothing. There was no reaction from anywhere. Good lord, he was going to regret this, "Look. I'm sorry about that — "

"_Shut up!_" came the growl, and it appeared to be coming from the ground.

Flummoxed, he managed a stuttered, "Wh- wh- what the _hell_?" Just before he jumped backwards, staring where his scuffed shoes had just been.

Rising from the earth like some sort of vengeful demon (or mutilated angel), with his red eyes burning and lacking the glassy gleam of before, and the ghost snarled, "I told you not to come back, Potter! So what are you doing here? Come to take us to the Unspeakables so they can dissect _usss_...?"

Merlin, Voldemort was in an accusatory mood.

Instead of retaliating in a venemous tone, he managed to restrain himself enough to present the book, "No. I brought you a book."

"A book?" Voldemort echoed, the closest thing to surprise Harry had ever heard evident in his soft question. And then the long, pale fingers were wrapping around the seemingly nondescript volume. The ghost pulled it to his chest and a happy look fluttered across its face. Happy looked odd on Voldemort, but it also looked right, considering the man was hardly ever happy. Or rather, it was the happiness over something so innocent as a book that looked right on his face. None of that manical glee of torturing someone or watching a muggle be maimed nor turned into a bloody pulp was present in that look of pure elation.

He retreated to his tombstone, and slid down until he was resting against it, book open against his knees as he palmed through it.

Whatever the content of the book might have been, the megalomaniac appeared to enjoy it, and his happiness had turned into abject intensity as his eyes ran over the words printed on the crisp white pages.

Harry stayed silent, refraining from commenting on the humanity of the gestures the ghost was using, and slid to the ground so he could watch the dead man. The more he watched, the more he noticed the miniscule changes in the ghost's expressions as he read. Thin lips would twitch every so often, and on occasion his fingers would begin to tremble as though he could not believe he was holding a book. Marble eyes remained in a constant state of innocent wideness as he absorbed the information presented to him in the pages. It was strange seeing the evil man as a human being, despite the fact that he was not, and the quiet desperation at having some creature comfort was nearly endearing. Except that it was not. There was absolutely no reason that the psychopath could be thought of as endearing.

Clearly, there was something wrong with him. Especially when he was considering something as insane as —

He coughed, which barely drew Voldemort's attention, and huffed heavily afterward.

_I'm mad, absolutely mad,_ he mused, and then his mouth was opening of its own accord. Before the words could slip out, he managed to cover his mouth. The words were muffled enough that the ghost paid no attention to him as he waged his internal war. He was not considering it. He was not, again, he was not. _You see, you are not going to say it. You can control it, you know you can, control the impulse, control that 'saving-people' thing _—

"I have more books at home."

_Are you an idiot?_

Harry silenced his subconscious when Voldemort snapped his head up to stare at him as though he had grown a second head. In this situation, he didn't doubt it, either.

"... what?" the ghost uttered, snapping the book in his hands shut. His eyes were still all milky and not right, but there was interest there.

"I imagine that it's rather, uh, horrible being stuck here with nothing to do so..., uhm," Harry said, trying to keep the awkwardness out of his voice, but ultimately failing. He was sure that this was more awkward than that conversation with Ginny that had ultimately lead to his vacation in the first place. "Alright, look, I'm sorry for killing you, because I didn't want to be a murderer and all, but... uhm... what I'm saying is, spending the rest of your, er, existence will probably be better off in contact with someone human and — "

"Get to the _point_, boy..." Voldemort hissed, towering over Harry, having some point stood during the unintelligent drivel.

Harry blurted out, "You should come live with me."

Voldemort blinked. He blinked once, twice, and still he was unable to reply to Harry's statement. Under any other circumstances, it would have been an accomplishment to make Voldemort speechless, but this was one of those moments where he would have preferred an angry tyrade to silence. It was one of those silences that made him shift and wriggle while he couldn't do anything to interrupt the all encompassing doom.

"I hate you," Voldemort informed him.

He felt the need to defend himself, "You hardly know me."

Red eyes narrowed into slits, and the nostrils set into that smooth face flared, "Indeed." It was a cryptic response neither denying nor accepting.

"It can't hurt," Harry muttered, "Plus, I could use the company, however much of an arse you are."

Voldemort hissed, before he stopped saying whatever insult he was about to spout. He stood, back rigid and head tilted in a thoughtful manner, his eyes darting from side to side in suspicion, "We shall have our freedom? You won't restrict our actions like most would?"

"Short from killing me."

He wasn't sure whether to be unnerved by the creeping smile on Voldemort's face, or happy by what the ghost said next, "Then we suppose Lord Voldemort shall grant you the pleasure of his company."

Barmy. He was barmy. They both were. But at that moment, he wasn't sure who was more of a loon.

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**A/N: **Let it be known that Harry was never known for tact. At least in my opinion. Nor Voldemort, but that's something else entirely. Also, yeah. I'm sure Harry's plan to "help Lord Voldemort" will go over smoothly. If the ending seems awkward, good. That's because it is. The act itself seemed inately wrong but right, considering all the events, so it would have been an awkward and nutty situation regardless of who it was involved. No one generally goes inviting people they killed's ghosts into their homes. Unless you're Harry Potter (apparently) or utterly insane.

... probably.

[author's note written with level snape sarcastic tone]


	3. A Tower of Books

**A/N:** I'm so glad y'all like this. :) And it is a lot easier to write this story than 'Where the Wind Goes', because I'm not trying to line it up to already existing events. Ughfsd. Anyways, cheers!

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'A word is dead  
When it is said  
Some say.  
I say it just  
Begins to live  
That day.'

— Emily Dickinson, "VI. A Word."

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The Waking of the Ghost  
A Tower of Books

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Two, three years ago, waking up to find Voldemort (much less his ghost) staring down at him would have warranted more than an annoyed grunt after a few warranted flails. But seeing as Harry had been the one to invite the deceased Lord into his home, he just had to deal with the quirks that came along with the admittedly stupid idea. One of them, apparently, was that the phantom enjoyed watching him sleep. Which was disturbing in of itself without opening his eyes to find himself almost face to face with the ghost. His heart nearly stopped in that moment, and he had to bring a hand to his chest to calm his breathing while slowly maneuvering his way out of bed. Voldemort's eyes followed him, but otherwise he remained still as he sat on the edge of Harry's bed, looking more like a lost puppy than an evil overlord.

"Good mornin'," he told it, and when there was no reaction he asked, "Do you... want something?"

"No," Voldemort snapped immediately, before pointedly looking away.

He wanted something, Harry determined, but it was _beneath_ him to ask. _Or maybe_, he figured silently, pressing a thumb to his lip in thought, _he doesn't know how to ask? It makes sense._ It really did, in a way, because Harry doubted Voldemort had ever had to ask for something he wanted in a sincere manner. Feeling the eyes on his neck, Harry shifted uncomfortably in his pajamas, before heading for the door to start making breakfast. It wasn't as though he needed to be presentable for the man. The spirit followed behind him a good couple of feet until they reached the kitchen, where it practically lunged for the _Prophet_ and started reading through it. Occasionally, it made scathing comments toward the credibility of the paper.

While it was busy reading the paper, Harry got himself a bowl of leftover fruit salad and a croissant before sitting down at the table across from the ghost. It was an oddly and terribly surreal situation to be sitting across from his worst nemesis, eating breakfast while Voldemort read the paper. He didn't want to think of what it implied, but he was still wary about the potential hazard spitting insults at someone named 'Romilda Edwards', and her '_pathetic_ excuse for a journalistic talent'. Geez, someone had their knickers in a twist. Not that he was going to comment on the ghost's foul mood out loud.

Harry was not suicidal. Yet.

Bringing a tender slice of strawberry to his lips when he felt the intense gaze on him again. There it was again. He glanced over and saw Voldemort staring at some point beyond his head, and he raised a brow in curiosity. Voldemort wanted something, obviously. Harry knew that he ought not ask again, since it would appear that he was patronizing, but he felt patronizing in this situation. He frowned slightly and downed the delicious piece of fruit before he snorted.

"Do you want something, Voldemort?" Harry questioned once again, drumming his fingers on the shiny surface of his table in hopes of getting an answer if he appeared impatience.

He got a thin smirk in response.

_So he's doing this on _purpose_? Figures._

They sat in silence while Harry snatched the _Prophet_ from the ghost and began to read through it. He was on an article describing the current vampire-wizard relations (which was going downright awfully, since the wizard ambassadors in charge of the negotiations were biased and believed vampires wanted nothing more than bodies and blood), more specifically on how the vampire Norman White had attacked one of the ambassadors because said diplomat had the audacity to suggest that they were a classless, structureless race. Really. This was why Harry hadn't supported Kingsley Shacklebolt for Minister of Magic. He thought the man was brilliant as an auror, but as a politician he was a tad undereducated in these delicate situations. Not that Harry was much better at handling delicate situations. Another reason why he was avoiding his friends.

Just the thought of his friends when he had refused to support Shacklebolt in his attempts at the Minister, favored by the magical people mostly because he was friends with Harry Potter, made him bitter. Harry's breath whistled as he took a sharp inhale, his fingers curling around the paper. He didn't hate his friends or Shacklebolt, no, not at all; he just didn't think they got his reasoning. He did not want another war, another repetition of the Death Eaters, only this time on the Light side instead of the Dark. It was that simple. Really. He wasn't trying to be cruel or rebellious, he was just doing what he thought would bring about some sort of peace, even if it had meant backing the other candidate at the time.

It was also why he begged off on politics after Shacklebolt got the Minister post. Nope. No more schemes, corrupt bigots, or greasy handshakes for Harry.

"I read all of the books in your study... even the fictional accounts," Voldemort's voice made Harry jump, goosebumps crawling over his skin as he was taken from his deep, dark thoughts. He blinked owlishly in the direction of the ghost, while trying to process that information into what he actually wanted from Harry. He read all the books, and therefore needed more. Right? Also, how did he manage to read all of those jargon filled texts in the few hours that Harry was asleep? Was he some sort of reading god?

Harry replied by scooting out of reach of the ghost's immediate grasp, before he inquired, "Does that mean you want me to go buy you more books?"

Voldemort gave him a dry look in response, his upper lip twitching as he fought against some baser insult (probably one about Harry's mother). "Yes," hissed the ghost eventually, shifting and appearing altogether uncomfortable with having to admit that he wanted something from Harry. It was just as well in Harry's book, because Voldemort needed to be humbled. If only just. He was unsure, however, if being humbled would have any ramifications on the ghost's already shattered personality.

"Okay," he acquiesced, figuring that an occupied Voldemort was better than a restless Voldemort, "Do you want magical or muggle literature?"

"Muggle."

"What?" Harry could barely contain his shock. Voldemort, _the_ Voldemort, pureblood supremacist and muggle hater, was even more of a hypocrite than before? Well. That was new.

The dead Lord glared at him as though he knew just what Harry was thinking and seethed, "Just because we enjoy literature does not mean we're a muggle sympathizer, fool."

"Sorry, sorry," he attempted to placate the angry ghost, "So, ah... can you turn invisible or something? Whatever it is that the ghosts at Hogwarts did? That way it would be easier to pick out books, since I've no idea what you would prefer."

"We can turn 'invisible' as you so inelegantly put the shifting into the other planes of existence, and we also find your suggestion acceptable," Voldemort intoned in his strange manner of speech, which spoke of mental damage or just a bad case of arrogance. Harry was willing to bet his entire vault that a psychologist would give his or her entire life savings to have one hour long session with the man. He knew that if he was a psychologist, he would pay an arm or a leg to dissect the mind running the madman.

"... right," muttered Harry, shaking his head, and he forewent actual changing in favor of performing the necessary charms to change his outfit into something muggle, freshen his breath and the like. Magic was nice. It left his skin feeling all tingly and he himself giddy despite himself. Magic just got better and better, except for all the awful things it could do. Like disemboweling. Decapitation. Asphyxiation — alright, so maybe it was not that great in some cases. But in everyday life, magic was super.

He offered his arm to the ghost much as he had done the other day when he brought it back to his house, and fought the urge to tense when the cold fingers wrapped around his forearm. He was tempted, and his body's natural aversion the the deathly chill only encouraged the temptation, to throw the ghost's grasp off of him, but he resisted. If only because he was trying to be nice. He had, after all, ruined Voldemort's life and had gotten him killed on two occasions now, the first was, of course, an accident, but the second had not been. Since he had been given the chance to better himself and Voldemort after the atrocious act, he was going to take it. Hopefully without dying in the process.

Apparation alongside a ghost was a peculiar sensation that left him cold, shivering and with the urge to vomit. Yesterday had been terrible, when he had brought Voldemort back with him, and he had ended up on his hands and knees, shuddering uncontrollably as he wretched up his breakfast. Today wasn't any better but he was able to keep himself on his feet while the ghost's body slowly faded until it was entirely see-through. Harry could still feel the cold brand on his wrist, however, and lead the invisible Dark Lord along with him into the muggle book store. He had chosen to go to a small town nearby over a larger one, where he would risk being recognized.

They quietly perused the rows of books, with Harry pulling out the ones that Voldemort was interested in reading, and they left the store with at least fifteen books in hand. Harry had a feeling that his library would simply keep growing at this rate.

Harry wanted to stay in the quiet town for a little longer, simply enjoying the feel of being a nobody (if not a bit of a novelty because he was a new person), but Voldemort was rather insistent on returning to the cottage.

"We'll possess one of them, Harry Potter, we will... and we'll make him kill someone important to him..." was the threat issued in a slightly slurred tone behind his ear.

Even as a ghost, Voldemort was taller than him.

This time, he managed to not even tremble while the ghost clung to him as they appeared onto the doorstep of his cottage. Almost instantly, the bag hanging on his arm was gone, the contents scattered across the living room before he could even enter his home, while Voldemort picked out the one he wanted to read.

"Why did the public condone killing off my followers? Moreover, why did _you_, who was so against killing, allow them to?" Voldemort asked suddenly, not once looking up from the book cradled in his lap.

Harry flinched, unprepared for that topic, nor the casual tone in which it was asked. Ah, how to explain? "I'm just one person, I can't change what they wanted... it was bad enough that I convinced them to not go about and lop your head from your corpse to parade it around, going so far as to get you a proper grave and all, apparently. Most people refused to listen to what I had to say about your followers being people too, despite of all the horrible things they did. Claimed I was a sympathizer — I just didn't want more death, and there was the chance that someone's family would seek revenge, leading to more trouble than it was worth. No one listened of course. I sat through three trials which ended in the Dementor's Kiss before I flipped out at them."

"Fickle is fame," Voldemort muttered, before he tilted his head. "What made you... 'flip out' at them?"

Nose crinkling as he tried not to laugh at the ghost using the term 'flip out', he said without to many interrupting snickers, "They were acting just like the people they were killing. There was a lot of mass hysteria and tension after you died. People were mad, just... blinded by everything. I don't know, just the general stupidity, and that no one else would say that it was wrong. I'm not sure. All I know was that I couldn't stand to watch those people's souls being sucked out of them. The Killing Curse was more humane than the Kiss, at the time."

He paid close attention to the phantom's expressions while he spoke, and noted that the man seemed outraged by the actions of the Light. Or maybe just by the fact that his death had caused so much unwanted wanton chaos. Or maybe it was just that they desired to desecrate his corpse after he had died. Harry couldn't put his thumb on it, but something was surely making the ghost angrier than it normally was.

"I see."

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter isn't all that exciting, but eh... the next one will be, I'm sure. Or not. I dunno. [insert shit-eating grin]


	4. Suggestions of Merit

**A/N:** Excitement! [shot]

So, anyways, there are several things I would like to point out before hand... that I may have forgotten. This is _not_, just like 'Where the Wind Goes', a 'Voldemort is the _good_ guy' or a 'Harry turns dark and super omg sexy because of that'. It's not even a 'Gray/Neutral Harry' work of fiction. He is who he is, and therefore, _none of that matters._ From my interpretation of the series, its the **general** actions/purpose (murder, saving people, etc) that determines whether or not a wizard/witch/creature/magic is 'Dark' or 'Light'. Hence, I think Voldemort was right all along when he said that good and evil? Nada. Zip. Zilch. They mean nothin'. Alright, and moving on... there will be some more things clarified after the chapter but for now... enjoy! :)

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'Everyone has talent.  
What is rare is the courage to follow  
the talent to the dark place where it leads.'

— Erica Jong

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~ v ~

The Waking of the Ghost  
Suggestions of Merit

~ v ~

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"If you are so disgusted by the vulgarity of the Ministry's actions, why not act against it?"

Harry paused in the middle of organizing the scattered books across the wooden floor of his living room to stare at the ghost. His fingers twitched as he picked up a heavy, black volume with golden letters on that was not in English. Pursing his lips, he sighed after a moment, before carting his fingers through his thick, tangled hair. Here he had thought that that topic had been left behind after Voldemort's short, succinct answer fifteen minutes ago. Apparently, the man had just been stewing in his own mind, waiting for a chance to ask another bothersome question.

He felt caught, partially due to the accusing nature of the ghost's voice, as well as his own reluctance to have anything to do with the Ministry. He just didn't understand the way politics worked. And politics didn't exactly appreciate him, considering all of the _Prophet_ articles and the finicky nature of his fame.

"Because — er, I can't stand the people there," he muttered darkly, adding another book to the growing stack before heading to the next one, "I don't like all of the... fake smiles, slimy handshakes..."

Voldemort scoffed, peeking over the rim of his book, "That's the whole point of politics, boy." He thumbed a page absently, his fingers slipping through the pages in a moment of distraction, "So what the devil are you intending to _do_ for the rest of your meager existence?"

"You could be less rude, y'know," Harry remarked, fighting the smile tugging at his lips because of the Voldemort-ness of Voldemort. It was nice knowing that some people had hardly changed in the past few years. "I was considering playing quidditch professionally. I got a bunch of offers sitting around here somewhere."

Another scoff. "What a waste."

He frowned. "A waste of what?"

"Fame — influence — your very name? The fact that you killed me?" the ghost suggested, closing his book as he became absorbed in the conversation at hand, "You could do so much more than playing that game, with your name still as a household topic in most wizarding families, the simple act of you talking about your opinion on a law or subject would warrant some people changing theirs. That you don't use that disgusts us."

"Yes, but, while my opinion is good for so much, lying plays a big part in politics, and I'm a terrible liar," Harry informed Voldemort.

He got a long, blank stare at first, before the spirit chuckled, "I beg to differ."

"Why?"

Voldemort tapped his own forehead aimlessly, "You weren't the only one stuck looking through someone else's mind."

"And what does that have to do with my lying abilities?"

Voldemort raised one brow in silent questioning, and then Harry realized that the ghost had probably seen one of those times that he had lied to get out of detention. Or told the half-truth. He got clarification a moment later, "Telling half of the truth is similar to lying."

"Thanks," he quipped sarcastically, "But I'm not going into politics, and you can't convince me otherwise. I might not like how ineffective the Ministry is, but I am not capable of doing anything about it. I wouldn't know where to start. M'not good at sitting around and talking."

"You're sitting around talking now," the ghost pointed out, giving a sweeping gesture.

Harry gave it a dry look in return.

The phantom shifted, and sunk into a state of deep concentration while Harry mulled over its words. Since it was said in an admittedly sane manner, he was able to consider Voldemort's words with a clear conscious. Anyone could admit that when Voldemort was in a lucid mood, he had a brilliant mind. Ollivander was right, after all, the Dark Lord did terrible things. Terrible, but great. Harry pressed his hands against his knees, wiping his sweaty palms on the rough material of his jeans. He didn't want to get into politics, but the only way to change things as they were other than that was to have a revolution. And, well, with the memory of Voldemort's so-called revolution still in the wings, it would be nigh impossible. Even if he was Harry Potter.

Rationally, the only option was to try and go back into the political scene, make a firm stance on where he was, and gain the proper support of the people. Maybe even get enough appeal to get selected to run for Minister in a few terms, or such. Or maybe just turn out to be an outstanding figure, who most people would look to for a proper Minister. Blindly following his ideals or some such rot.

He sighed. He hated politics for that very reason. Fickle. Outrageous, and sort of pointless, he thought, only serving to convert people to certain views.

It was probably just his bad rap with the magical politics over the years that lead to his terrible view point of it, but he couldn't let go of the negative ideals.

"If we may, we have a suggestion," came the smooth, fluid voice of Lord Voldemort.

"Shoot."

If he had been annoyed at the muggle slang, he didn't show it. "Harry Potter might not do well with politics, but Lord Voldemort does."

"And...?"

"If you decide to go into politics as we have suggested... we can help," Voldemort said rather pleasantly, pressing his fingers together before him in a rather menacing gesture. He bared a white, flawless smile when Harry started at the offer, staring wide-eyed and miffed.

Harry mocked, "And what's in it for Lord Voldemort?"

The ghost sniffed, affronted at being poked fun at, "Entertainment."

"Of course," Harry snorted, shaking his head, "I told you — I am _not_ going into politics."

"I've read the _Prophet_, and from the articles... especially the ones pertaining to relations with the wizarding societies of the mainland, and foreign countries... and event that one about vampire-wizard negotiations... and I find the state of things laughable. The Ministry has gone downhill. I remember when it was effective, efficient; altogether a machine to be admired. It has rusted in those years. Someone ought to replace the ruined parts, and right now, _you_ (unfortunately) are the only candidate at the moment," Voldemort said, and Harry could tell how his followers had become enthralled.

The ghost had a way with words, certainly, even if he lacked the appeal he had had when he looked human.

Harry plopped down onto his couch, resting his head on the back of it, staring up at the ceiling with an absent expression on his face. His ran his fingers along the supple leather, lost in thought as he tempted to ignore the ghost. It was hard, however, when it kept trying to get his attention again. He ended up covering his ears when it launched into an angry, high-pitched spiel on not wasting a gift horse in the mouth. He even had to bite on his tongue to not make any sarcastic remarks that would end up with him being trapped under more irritated words.

" — and _really_, Potter, if you had gotten more involved in politics you might have been able to stop that hysteria that destroyed families — "

Voldemort was right, of course. Of _course_.

" — ate the souls of my followers — "

He had to be right, because that was just so darn funny, ironic... whatever the word was. Harry had been caught up in it as well, if only because of all the people he had known who had died because of the war. The families that had already been destroyed. The lives lost. The good, kind people who gave their lives to oppose the tyranny, the terror, the horrible things. And here he was, sitting in the same room as that mass murderer, who was preaching about _morals_ and the like. Could things get any worse?

" — too cowardly to stand up and join in the reasonable — "

"Okay, okay!" Harry shouted, putting his fingers in his ears so that he didn't have to hear whatever else the ghost was going to say, "Enough! Enough! I get it, okay?"

Not willing to wait to see if Voldemort would continue his angry speech, and opened an eye he hadn't known he had closed. Painfully, he was aware that the ghost had moved from its seat and was staring down at him as he sat on his couch. A nervous, flighty feeling welled up inside of him: he was quick to identify it as fear, something he had only, only felt when dealing with Voldemort's followers. He wasn't prophesied to defeat them, or maybe it was because against Voldemort, he had known more? Understood him, to some degree? But now, just because the ghost was mad and giving _him_ lessons on _morals_ and courage, he felt that fear he should have?

"Why are you preaching morals at me?" he asked, clinging to that point as a way to avoid the topic at hand.

"Avoiding the subject isn't going to help you," Voldemort hissed, and Harry cursed loudly, "And... you gave us... books."

"So?"

"No one gave us books before. Not even our followers — pointless baubles, yes, but useful things filled with knowledge? No."

Harry paused, "That's sad." And weird. Very, very weird. So Voldemort was appealing to Harry's morals because he had given the ghost books? Did that mean that Voldemort repaid genuine kindness with an, albeit twisted, form of kindness in return? Or maybe the ghost simply felt the need to not owe Harry anything. But that wouldn't explain the moral thing. Not one bit.

"We don't — "

" — want my pity, I _know_, I _know_," he interrupted, watching the ghost as it retreated back to its seat.

"Don't interrupt us!" it snarled, turning around before it sat down again, "Don't change the topic. Go into politics. We'll kindly offer any assistance needed."

"I'll _think_ about it."

"_No_, you'll _do_ it."

"Don't be such an arse," Harry started before he got his just desserts, "Tom — "

"You will not use that name! It's bad enough that Dumbledore used it, and you, but not now that I've died — I _hate_ it, _hate_ — " Voldemort took a deep, wheezing breath before he snapped his jaws shut. He looked firm against fighting the maniacal outburst.

Frowning, and admittedly stunned by the sudden outburst, Harry said, "Okay. You're Voldemort. Not Tom. I won't use 'Tom' anymore. I'm _sorry_. Now listen, I will _think_ about going back into politics."

He got a low, menacing hiss in return. Harry stared at the ghost for a moment, brow raised at the sound, which was an insult if he ever heard one. Now who was being rude? He held his tongue, however, in favor of shaking his head and turning his attention elsewhere.

He needed lunch, preferably some sort of meat — all the better to take his unwanted frustrations out on. Dark Lords were frustrating creatures.

* * *

**A/N:** I swear I'm trying to make them longer, but I just keep finding such yummy ways to stop them. ;D

Voldemort's speech patterns, the 'we/us/he/me' thing going on comes from several concepts. Him referring to himself in the plural is not (exactly) the act of his splintered soul combining together, but an actual way people talk. Generally, the 'we/us' speech pattern comes from insecurities or, in certain cultures/languages, a method in which royalty spoke to differentiate between themselves and common-folk. In Voldemort, it's a mix of the two, after having taken into account his past and present self. In the books, he actually refers to himself as 'Lord Voldemort' or in third person, again, arrogance and superiority playing a factor in things.

Another is that I'm not sure if I want _this_ one will involve a sexual/romantic relationship between Voldemort and Harry — oh, sure, maybe somewhere along the line, since I think this will turn out being a long story, but it is not in my immediate plans at the moment.

I hope that helps clarify those issues!


	5. Hot Water Owls

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'The first of earthly blessings, independence.'

— Edward Gibbon, _Autobiography_

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~ v ~

The Waking of the Ghost  
Hot Water Owls

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He let his neck rest upon the cold, porcelain curve of his tub as hot water and bubbles caressed his skin. It was a comfort that he seldom participated in, baths — Harry had never really had the time to revel in the feel of being soaked, of his muscles lax and a day's troubles melting away, the blame falling to his relatives, mostly. His fingers twitched in irritation as he shoved the thoughts of his mother's family down and off to the side. He didn't like them, and he did not want to think about them. Of all the trouble the Order had gone through, just to keep them safe from harm, when they themselves could have cared less about wizards and _freaks_ coming after them. He let his eyes close as he slid further down into the delicious warmth, his toes starting to stick out on the other side of the tub. It made him snicker, as he wriggled them amongst the bubbles, before his thoughts took a darker turn.

Glasses resting innocently on the edge of the tub, Harry's world was blurred and otherwise uncertain as he pondered deeply the matters of Voldemort's ghost.

The ghost was a strange creature, he had to admit, and was even more of an enigma than Voldemort had been. Whilst Voldemort had simply been mad, therefore confusing, his ghost was not only mad, but acted differently than it had when it had been alive. It was hard to think of the ghost as Voldemort, if only because the specter was, well, he was loath to admit it, but _kinder_. Not exceedingly, but the phantom was more apt to listen, contemplate, and reason (or at least, that was how it seemed) than it had when living. It still hated its original name, yet it was acting more human, which was wrong. Voldemort lacked humanity but for the fear of death — had it taken dying to awaken the shredded remains of human emotion buried deep beneath spite?

Doubtful. That reasoning was doubtful in of itself. Dying didn't necessarily quench the fear of death, only eliminated it. And Voldemort wasn't _really_ dead if he came back as a ghost, right? He was dead and alive at the same time, caught in some twisted form of limbo, and deprived of magic. He was not a physical, flesh and blood being, lacking a brain and a heart; but apparently still thought. It was confusing, considering his experience with the ghosts of Hogwarts, and his knowledge of them. Voldemort's ghost was definitely different than the silver specters that had haunted the halls of the magical castle.

He had color, after all. Red eyes. Blue and purple veins. That had to mean something.

Harry sighed and blew bubbles in the water; it was hard trying to figure out the inner workings of such a maddening existence. He closed his eyes to enjoy his moment of relaxation (he understood now, why people enjoyed baths so much).

_Tap, tap, tap _—

_What now? _he wondered, opening his eyes and looking toward the window for the source of the tapping. He was greeted by the sight of an alien, white face: a barn owl. _His_ barn owl, who he had gotten a few months ago after getting tired of having to pay for a post owl. The bird was nearly all white, but for a light dusting of sand upon its back. Soren was the name it had come with. Currently, the agitated owl was scratching at the window of his bathroom with wicked black talons. Scowling, Harry summoned his wand with a flick of his wrist, and then gestured at the window with the holly wand. It opened with a soft click, and the owl came storming in to land on the edge of the tub.

For a moment it appeared as though the owl would loose its footing and the letter grasped in its beak to the slick sides of the tub, but it managed to stay upright. Soren raised himself up and stared darkly at Harry, who quickly snatched the letter from it, and proceeded to open the unmarked thing after performing a few detection charms over it. The barn owl rasped loudly before flitting back over to the window where it puffed up and settled down to wait for a treat. Ignoring the moody bird, Harry unfolded the parchment within the envelope which ended up resting on the tile floor.

_Dear Harry,_ the letter began, and immediately, he knew it had to be one of his friends, since no one else would address it so familiarly.

Tempted as he was to throw the letter to the floor, and write back a simple reply saying that he needed the time to think, so he would _not_ be coming back early, he bit his lip and read the rest. He cared about them, despite being a tad annoyed, so the least he could do was read the letter, and reply back saying he was fine.

_Dear Harry,_

_I know that you would rather spend the rest of the month without talking to (or seeing) any of us, but I just wanted you to know that we all love you dearly. Avoiding the issue isn't going to help anyone in the long run. Yes, we _are_ mad that you wouldn't support Kingsley when he ran for Minister, and we _do_ realize that maybe that was for the best, seeing the current state of affairs, especially the vampire-wizard negotiations. But you can't deny that it was wrong of you to just not explain yourself when you went on to support Howell Jenkins in his campaign _— _that was cruel. He may not have won the election, but some people are calling for a re-election ever since Liam Johnson was attacked by Normand White _— _the vampire, I assume you already read that article, haven't you? _

_Anyways, we would really appreciate it if you could try and convince Mr. Jenkins to head the Department of Relations with Magical Beings and Creatures. Perhaps, seeing as he has more_ experience_ in the matter, everyone will benefit from him taking the position. Mr. Jenkins has been ignoring Minister Shacklebolt's owls, and even our own, so we were hoping that if you sent an owl that he might reply. Soren refused to take any letters that weren't addressed to you from us._

_With all our love,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Ron Weasley_

_Ginny Weasley_

"Good bird," he told Soren, who hooted in response, and Harry could just hear the demand for food from the arrogant beast. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, before he deposited the letter on the floor. He pulled the plug from the drain of the tub and rose from the warm water, making a few gestures with his wand to dry himself. He dressed quickly before he picked the letter up off the cold tile, and offered his arm to the owl perched on the window. He winced as the sharp claws pricked his arm, but shook off the pain in favor of leaving the bathroom.

He passed the living room, where he could see that Voldemort had not moved from his collection of books and issues of the _Prophet_ from the last two years. The ghost looked up briefly to glance at the owl on Harry's forearm before turning back to what appeared to be a collection of Shakespeare's works. Harry entered his study and took a seat at his desk, searching around for a quill and a leaf of parchment to pen his reply to his friends.

It took several drafts of the letter before he was satisfied with a simple, short response that he _might_ consider sending a letter to Jenkins, if he found the time. He wasn't sure about getting involved in politics, and despite Voldemort's — dare he say it — _encouragement_, he was still iffy about the topic. He was careful when he told them that while he was considering going back into the public scene, he did not want to do so prematurely. He had been gnawing on his bottom lip the entire time while handing the letter off to Soren after giving the owl a chunk of chicken. He watched the owl as it left, until it was but a speck in the sky.

It seemed the world wanted him to go back into politics.

Not only was Voldemort's ghost talking to him about it, his friends had just given him the perfect chance to do so.

"Which is brilliant, mind, but I'm not asking for everything to be handed to me on a silver platter," he told his desk with a slight frown.

"Talking to inanimate objects is usually considered a sign of mental problems."

"Is that how you knew you were mad?" Harry joked, glancing up at the ghost hovering the doorway. Its face was blank and it did not react to the comment like he had wanted it to, instead opting to come to a stop before his desk and pick up a quill. He held the gray feather out to Harry.

Briefly, Harry wondered if the ghost was still capable of reading minds.

"You think loudly," Voldemort hissed, shoving the quill in Harry's face, "Now write, fool. Take what chances you have."

"I told you I — "

"Yes, yes," the phantom interjected, "You don't want to go back into politics, despite knowing that it's a better idea than what you were already thinking of, and would do more good than you could accomplish otherwise. Don't you have a hero complex? Mmm...? You could be the only honest politician out there. Think of the novelty."

"I'm sorry, I've had enough of the 'novelty' of being Harry Potter, what makes you think I want to be introduced to more of this so-called novelty?"

"Because you're a good person."

That made Harry pause — "What?"

The ghost rolled its eyes, "I said, 'because you're a good person'."

"I know that," he mumbled, before he asked, "Why does the fact that I'm a good person change anything?"

"You like helping people, don't you?"

"Well, yes, I suppose I do."

"Then that makes you better than the other politicians out there: you would actually, as much as it pains me to admit it, be better off in getting things done. Besides, you've undoubtedly had experience in dealing with slander."

"And who's fault is that?" Harry accused, staring at the ghost.

"Rita Skeeter's," Voldemort quipped, "Not mine."

Harry frowned. Damn, Voldemort was right again.

"Now write."

"No."

Voldemort raised a hairless brow, and his head tilted to the side as he stared dully at Harry. He offered the quill to Harry once more, the gray feather grasped loosely in his slightly transparent fingers. He did so with such an insistent look, that Harry felt obligated to at least take the quill from the ghost, which he did. And then, once he had it in his hands, he decided that it might not be so bad to go into politics. He could help people more by getting into politics than as an auror or such. And he would help people, that he was certain of. Hadn't Voldemort also offered his help? What that entitled, he wasn't sure, but it was better than nothing.

Convinced, Harry began to write a letter to one Mr. Jenkins, aware of the smug smile gracing the ghost's lips.

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**A/N: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far, and yeah, Harry's up and gone into the political scene now, apparently. Fun. Fun. (;

Also, I'm sure the next chapter will be longer... probably. I'm terrible at finding enough to put in a chapter.


	6. Last of the Cornucopia

**A/N:** I've been in shock for the past couple of days, because I never knew how bad having a broken toe could screw with you. Never underestimate the importance of having all ten toes functional.

Also, someone caught the nod at _Howl's Moving Castle_, which is awesome. I was staring at it for the longest time while writing the last chapter. Whooop.

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'Men show their characters in nothing  
more clearly than in what they think laughable.'

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832)

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~ v ~

The Waking of the Ghost  
Last of the Cornucopia

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_Dear Mr. H. Potter,_

_While I'm rather... displeased with the turn of events, I suppose it is in my best interests to attest to the Minister's wishes, after all, he is doing a horrid job at choosing representatives when dealing with the vampires. Poor Marcus Andres _— _alas, his Jocelyne is now a widow and her children have no father. And for what reason? A poor slip of the tongue. Pity, really. You can't deny that Normand White was right for what he did; Andres had no right to say what he did. Have you heard, Mr. Potter, what Andres said to the vampire? Probably not, considering that the _Prophet_ is doing its darnedest to keep the real reason behind the 'unprovoked' attack. If you don't wish to know, though I hope I know you well enough from the campaign to say that you do, feel free to skimp over the rest of this letter. Truly, I hope you read it. It's a strange mimicry of events that have no doubt happened in history, but no one cares enough to pay attention to the past._

_The story started off with Normand White and three of his fellows (Hero Pallas, Jonathan Muta, and Sylvan Cruik) greeting the diplomats, including Andres, in the foyer of the Manor Inamorata _— _a place that should be famous for its herald banquets between various magical creatures for peaceful delegations, but is often forgotten in the wake of war and bloodshed _— _so that they might continue negotiations over dinner and fine wine. Wine which was, apparently, too fine. Andres became a blundering drunkard after, I presume, his fifth glass or so, considering his weight, and began to spew off anything that came to mind. A talkative drunk, if I ever. There were many things said during those times, most of which were easily ignored by the agitated vampires _— _until, of course, Andres said the wrong thing at the wrong time._

_Sylvan Cruik himself told me what Andres said when I sent a letter requesting it of him, more than happy to give the words to someone who might spread them to the right people._

_"A vampire is good for one thing, and one thing only: murdering innocents."_

_Which was a downright tactless statement to make in the presence of a vampire._

_But I digress, that this is not the point of my letter... yes, I shall _meet_ with our dear Minister, but only if you agree to accompany me. A united force stands a better chance than a.. not-so united one. Pen 'way your reply, Mr. Potter, and if you say you shall join me in my front, then I shall gladly take over for the current head of the Department of Relations with Magical Beings and Creatures. In any matter, I am confident that I will do a better job than the man in charge now._

_Signed,_

_H. Jenkins_

Harry rested his cheek on the cold wood of his kitchen table as he stared at the offending letter with a good deal of unrest. He remembered, vaguely, meeting the vampire Sanguini at one of Slughorn's "parties" for upcoming and already famous witches and wizards. The vampire had been polite enough, but had seemed fairly uncomfortable around and about his 'caretaker' whose name escaped Harry. He absently sucked on the inside of his cheek as he fostered a reply, which was against his sense of self-preservation, because he had no doubt that Hermione, or even Mr. Weasley, would be asked to accompany Shacklebolt, but he knew that he would have to face his friends at some point. Never mind that there was the slightest, almost terrifying chance that he would run into an unhappy Ginny. A Ginny who would still be upset over their break-up or even a Ron who would be furious that Harry 'broke his little sister's heart'. Idly, he wondered if Ron would ever stop being so fickle as fame in his friendship, but supposed that that was part of the novelty that was Ronald Weasley.

For what felt like the umpteenth time that week, he found himself sighing. Somewhere in the other room was a bizarrely polite and slightly amiable ex-Dark Lord's ghost laughing as it poured over some work of fiction, while he was trapped in the whims of that ghost (who had felt the need to _convince_ him to go back into politics — and had succeeded, much to Harry's distress) and the threat of his less than pleased friends. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place, _ad infinitum_.

He could just picture Hermione's frown, her need to point out the _ridiculousness_ of his unplanned vacation, before she would stop, tilt her head back and laugh, before offering to show him her latest letter from Viktor Krum. He didn't know the reasons behind Hermione's continued, and frequent, communication with the Bulgarian seeker, but it had lead to an argument between her and Ron. While he hadn't been there to witness the catastrophic event, he had been there for the aftermath. It hadn't been pretty, and it had brought him that much closer to Hermione, and that much farther from Ron. Ron was still a good bloke, don't get him wrong, but he was a bit of an emotional roller coaster. Ron and Hermione had made up at some point, but their relationship had still been tense and awkward the last time Harry had seen the two of them together.

But it could have been worse, much worse, Harry figured.

Shaking his head, he sent off the reply to Jenkins before thumbing through the remainder of the letters scattered across the table. He set aside the two from Ron, and observed the one from Ginny with a wary eye before discarding it entirely. One envelope in particular caught his attention due to the formality and genuine unnaturalness of its presence amongst the envelopes containing letters from friends or — _ugh_ — 'fans'. It was addressed to a 'Mr. H. J. Potter' and written elegantly in deep blue ink.

It was from Gringotts, and appeared to be highly confidential, if all of the protection charms set over the envelope were anything to go by. For Harry, though, the seal broke without any resistance.

_Mr. H. J. Potter,_

_It has come to our immediate attention that whilst there have been no attempts to get into the vault of Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort, or even the vaults of Salazar Slytherin, in the past two years since his untimely defeat, that he had laid out specific instructions and enchantments upon the vaults. While it against Gringotts policy to break client confidentiality, or even to submit the contents of vaults to the Ministry of Magic, we believe the following information would be of great... interest to you, Mr. Potter. However, if you choose to relay this information to any other living being, it would be in your best interest to never come to Gringotts personally unless you are fully prepared to pay the consequences of your actions._

_We have ways of telling if our clients are truly dead, and just as Salazar Slytherin's vault _— _just as Merlin's does _— _proclaims that there is a living heir, Mr. Riddle's vault states that he is still 'alive'. Or rather, in a state which is neither dead or alive. This means that essentially, that the Riddle vault is still fully accessible to any soul who might have Mr. Riddle's permission to enter and remove the contents of his vault. As such, we are working to prevent anyone who would have had permission to take objects from his vault from doing so, since he either had no will or it had not been placed into the most reliable of hands. As you, ah, were the one to bury Mr. Riddle, that you venture to his grave and see if, perhaps, his spirit lingers there yet. The peculiar thing is, curious as it is, he was well and good listed as 'dead' just two years ago, and only recently has it been brought to our attention that he was 'dead-alive'. Curious, curious, isn't it, Mr. Potter?_

_If Mr. Riddle's spirit does, indeed, linger yet as we suspect he does, then we ask you to bring him to Gringotts, where he and I can discuss the matters of his vaults and properties further._

_Thank you for your consideration,_

_Urick R. Templeton  
_

"Curious indeed," Voldemort muttered right behind Harry's ear, causing him to jump and twist around uncomfortably in his chair only to find himself almost face-to-face with the ghost. He brought a hand up to his chest in an attempt to sooth the stuttering beat of his heart, so shocked as it was to find himself so close to his mortal enemy. Faintly, he speculated that he might have been that close to joining the ghost in death via a rather simple way to die, but nonetheless horrible.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Harry accused the ghost, watching it as it moved to perch upon the table.

It stared blankly at him, before giving a wry smile, "As pleasant as it would be to see you dying at my feet, you have your uses, Potter."

"So," Harry paused for a moment before he continued on, fairly unsure about the whole deal, "do you want to go to Gringotts? They seem pretty fixed on meeting your 'lingering spirit'."

Voldemort tilted his head to the side in a manner befitting a curious beast, "Ah, are you sure you aren't offering because you want to see what lies inside my old vault? Nothing interesting, I assure you — I never did trust the goblins with anything but money and the more... _informational_ texts at my disposable. You'll be hard-pressed to find any dark artifacts or shrunken heads to turn into the auror department."

"What? Shrunken heads, why — ? That's bizarre — you _have_ shrunken heads — enough that it warrants — ?"

"'Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est*'," the ghost informed him barely suppressing a rather _obnoxious_ grin breaking across his face, "But, yes, I would like a venture in visiting the goblins."

"We'll go after the meeting with Jenkins and the Minister," Harry replied, trying to stifle the sinking feeling in his gut.

"No, no — I would prefer if we went now, thank you very much," the ghost asserted, smiling what might have been a pleasant smile on any other face.

Grimacing, he tried his darnedest to convince the ghost otherwise, or very well just prove to be that stubborn, "Oh, but it's only two days, not even, _Tom_."

He did know how to push Voldemort's buttons, that was certain.

Voldemort snarled, "Don't call me that name! It isn't — it isn't my name!"

"I won't call you Tom if you agree to wait the two days and _not_ pester me," Harry said, almost slyly, if he did say so himself.

For a second, Harry thought that Voldemort was about to lash out and strike at him (however poorly that would turn out), but instead, the ghost leaned back, a speculative expression its face. Or rather, what Harry could consider a speculative look, because he was unsure as to whether or not such a tame emotion could pass on that hideous face.

"Well, well, Potter," the phantom muttered, eyes alight with some hidden pleasure, "It looks like you have cunning in you yet."

"I — I do _not_ have Slytherin traits — " A memory flitted to the surface, of the Sorting Hat telling him that he would do great in Slytherin.

The ghost rolled its eyes, and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, "Every human can be cunning, no matter if they were sorted into some House or another by a _talking hat_, fool — don't think that because you have a trait worth using, that it makes you like all the others who just so happen to have that trait. Think, are you at all like your muggleborn* friend? She is cunning in a different way than that Malfoy brat, or you — isn't that so?"

"How do you know about Hermione?" Harry asked, eyes narrowed as he pinpointed that tidbit of information.

"'Know thy enemy,'" Voldemort answered politely, now that he had successfully taken the course of conversation away from his given name, "And also, as much as I loathe the Malfoy's brat, he was often nearby complaining of 'Harry Potter's muggleborn friend' and how the only reason he didn't do better than her in his classes was because all the professors, except Snape, favored Gryffindors over Slytherins, or some such nonsense. He didn't complain so much after tasting the _cruciatus _curse."

"Is that why Malfoy was so — er — twitchy? Because you tortured him?"

"No, that was because I gave him a box of chocolates, of course it was, fool," Voldemort quipped sarcastically.

Harry skipped over the odd moment of humor in favor of bringing the conversation back on track, "Well? Are you going to wait the two days, or am I going to have to keep calling you _Tom, _Tom?"

"Fine," the ghost hissed, "fine. Two days, any more and you will _suffer_."

"I'm sure," Harry assured it.

* * *

**A/N: **A lot going on in this relatively short chapter, but uh, for some reason it flows. Unnaturally so, but it does. Any who, some interesting notes;

_'Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est,' — 'Yes, that is a very large amount of corn.'_ A sort of nonsense Latin phrase, sometimes used to prove mastery or skill in Latin. For some reason, I interpreted the English translation as something that would follow a rather befuddled statement of some sort. You know how if someone messes up the pronunciation of a word or some such, it's almost habit to make fun of them? Yeah, well, Voldemort pulling the nonsensical Latin as his way of making fun of Harry without Harry realizing that the big bad Dark Lord has an interesting sense of humor.

Muggleborn v. Mudblood; for some reason I can never remember Voldemort referring to 'muggleborns' as 'mudbloods' in the books, it was always his followers. Aversion to a word that could be taken as offensive to himself, no doubt, or something.

I, also, personally find the 'House' thing, where they sort children based on personality, ridiculous. Ah, well. It is only a story after all. (;


End file.
